


Honourbound

by FriendlyNeighbourhoodNecrodancer



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:57:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7247542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyNeighbourhoodNecrodancer/pseuds/FriendlyNeighbourhoodNecrodancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A guard walked along a corridor. He had just finished his patrol, watching the streets from Crow's Feed all the way back up to the Justiciar's Palace and he wanted nothing more than to shrug off his armour and sleep. He neared a doorway, barred with black steel. At either side stood suits of armour, same as his but for the badge.</p><p>They nodded curtly but when he tried to pass, a metal arm blocked his way. "Goodwell," the voice echoed behind the helmet, "the Lord Justiciar has something for you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovery

_Perhaps the man’s been dead for a little over five hours,_ Inspector Goodwell’s quill scratched into his notebook. _But truthfully, it’s hard to tell._

The Inspector did not know who had found the body, only that they couldn't keep their mouth shut. The story spread, from one mouth, then to everyone else and finally Basarra’s city guards. That’s was where Goodwell came in.

Murders were not all that rare in Bassara. But this killer was bold. Normally bodies were dumped in back alleys or hovels, while this one sat proudly beneath the morning shadow of the Justiciar's Castle, resting against the charred and blasted base of a lamppost.

He scribbled as much into his journal, glancing to and fro from the pages to the body, as scorched and blackened as the stone around it. Before he had been burned, his beard would have stretched down to his waist, and the charred bit of wood clutched in his hands, a staff. The velvety robes he wore used to be a deep indigo.

Goodwell traced his finger across a patch mostly untouched by the soot, and felt the tail end of a Detoxification enchantment. He searched the clothes again, finding a purse and a set of stab marks across the chest.

“You think it’s another one of them mage feuds?” Constable Marcus yawned, how he was still tired Goodwell couldn’t explain. The sun was overhead, but the winds restless enough to keep the air cool and the shock of a burnt cadaver was usually enough to wake anyone up.

Goodwell shook the suggestions aside. “A practitioner? I think not. And I don’t think it was a thief either.”

Constable Marcus rolled his eyes, but Goodwell knew he had his curiosity. “No? Well go on then, enlighten me.”

Goodwell led his eyes to the knife wounds. “If you were to set a man on fire with the flick of your wrist, would you then run up to him to with a dagger? If you were in it for the gold, don’t you think you’d checked the pockets?”

He tossed the satchel to the Constable but when he saw his eyes go wide with greed, he added, “That’s evidence. If I find them inside your pockets, you will not like how I’ll get them back out.”

“If you find them,” Marcus repeated with a smile. Inspector Goodwell hoped he was joking. “I’m going to go check on Cassia, I’m sure you can fill me in on whatever you find on the ride back to the castle.”

The Inspector watched him stalk away and observed the uniform. A grey jacket made with thin metal plates inside the lining, done up from the waist to the neck with brass straps. A shortsword and flintlock pistol at his belt. Greyed leather gloves. Knee high boots worn over the lower legs of the trousers, a small shade darker. Around the neck he wore a bleached leather collar and a full helmet with a slitted visor, painted white as well.

Goodwell was wearing the same, except he had his notebooks on his belt and the badge on his lapel, bearing the sun and moon instead of a flurry of stars.

Cassia was the constable he had setting up a perimeter, as if she needed Marcus’s help with that. _He’s just going to steal the gold. Taking a peek inside and replacing all the silvers and golds with a handful of pennies._ Goodwell wished he was angry with him, but Marcus was no worse than any of the other men he worked with.

 _I could pass a message to the higher ups._ He was technically his superior, it would only cost him a bagful of silvers to never work with him again, which would entirely defeat the point of doing so.

Goodwell could only focus on the case for now, finding out who this man was his priority. _I’m not finding anything from his face,_ he decided with a hesitant glance, _but maybe I’ve missed something._

“So what did you find, Boss?” The carriage was more than big enough for the three of them, with Ashleigh sitting beside him and Marcus opposite the two. In all honesty, people who were permanently happy frightened him, which meant someone like Cassia was Goodwell’s nightmare. Still, he trusted her. She was a new recruit. Goodwell hoped she would turn out like her sister.

“You tell me.” He handed his journal to her, watching her as she flipped through the pages, mouthing the words as she read them.

“This is pointless,” Marcus yawned, decidedly not reading the journal. “Bloody sorcerers are killing each other all the time. Most likely, they were travelling together and when our boy there decided to take a piss, his friend set his arse on fire.” He yawned, reclining back on his chair then added “Maybe the dead guy fucked his sister or something, made it personal and all. That’s where the knife came in. Any case, he’s probably way out of the city by now.”

Goodwell stared out of the carriage window, only faintly aware of Cassia's retort and the noises Marcus made in return. News of the dead mage was spreading like fire.He watched the crowded wooden huts with their thatched roofs made from tar. Then tried to imagine them burning. 


	2. Fieldwork

It had been several nights since they had found the body. By now, Cassia had wedged her foot in the doors of half the merchants, and Marcus, the taverns and brothels of the city. Most of the city guard was doing alike, combing through the streets while Goodwell sat in the castle library, thumbing through some books.

In his defense, these books were a record of every man, woman and horse that had passed beneath Bassara's walls. Still, he couldn't help but feel guilty. And perplexed.

Sorcerers came as rare as storms, each just as strong. Back in the annals of history, they had once ruled as masters over all others. With masters came slaves and they used their thralls to raise cities, with walls taller than any tree, watered with blood and fire. But that was millennia ago. They seldom left their citadel stronghold of Grimoor.

He flicked through the pages again, gloved fingers tracing across the squiggles on the parchment. With that in mind Goodwell thought some mention of their presence would have been noted.

 _Peculiar._ He climbed the ladder, slipping each book back into its rightful place along the shelf.  _Even with magic, it would have been hard to scale the city walls unnoticed._ Patrols walked the top, every hour, every day. Burrowing beneath the city, beneath the walls and bedrock was more likely.

The pile of questions only seemed to grow. A wizard, who by all accounts never entered the city was burned in the dark silence of the night then stabbed to death, found with pockets full of gold and not a single witness to his death.

He said as much to his commander, 

 

 


End file.
